


I am hell (in high heels)

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Purge (2013), The Purge: All Media Types, The Purge: Anarchy (2014), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Adult Content, Challenge Response, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Domestic Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sat on the couch and waited for the world to end. </p><p>It didn't.</p><p>And for some reason, that almost made her feel worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead", "The Purge," "The Purge: Anarchy" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Written for the crossover/alternative universe option for the USS Caryl's 'Mish-Mash' Fanfiction/Fanart Challenge. I recently watched both movies and simply couldn't resist, the crossover between these two fandoms seemed utterly effortless.
> 
> Warnings: *Contains: fandom appropriate violence, adult language, adult content, deals with aspects of past abuse (childhood and adult), clear references to domestic violence, and allusions made to possible future child abuse/molestation.

The first year of the annual purge, the same year the New Founding Father's skyrocketed into popularity and stole across the hearts and minds of the American people, she spent close to six months in denial. If there was a stronger word than disbelief, that was her default mode. She put a child lock on the TV, threw out the brochures. She kept it safely out of sight, out of mind, figuring that in a few months it would just fizzle out.

After all, the bill couldn't possibly pass, could it?

Three months later, the 28th constitutional amendment was ratified, and suddenly, not even  _she_  could ignore it anymore.

* * *

The day Sophia came home from pre-school, fresh-faced and bursting with questions about the Purge was the day she locked herself in the bathroom, sat down on the toilet seat and cried. It was unavoidable now. There were countdown clocks and Purge sales. Gun and survival stores cropping on every street corner, sometimes outnumbering even that of the Starbucks' per block as the months flew past and the Purge became more than just a threat, but a reality.

The evening of June 20th found her sitting beside Ed on the sofa, brittle-still and expressionless as the alarm klaxons sounded. The can of beer Ed was nursing  _ping-pinged_  as he took a long, exaggerated drag. A single rivulet of moisture  _drip-dripped_ onto the hardwood as the emergency broadcast bulletin started rolling across the screen.

She thought about the A.R rifle balanced on his lap. Of Sophia playing with her dolls on the floor in front of them, headphones echoing as she listened to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack on repeat. She thought about the twinge in her collarbone that had never quite gone away after the day Ed had kicked her down the stairs for cutting her hair. She thought about political grandstanding and politician after politician switching allegiances when it became clear that The New Founding Fathers wasn't just  _a_ party, but  _the_ party.

As the night wore on she watched the news feeds and wondered how they'd let it come to this.

When Ed downed the rest of his beer and left for the roof of their apartment building, rifle and ammo box in hand, she put Sophia to bed and sat back down on the couch. Quivering at each gunshot as the hours wore on and the smell of singed carbon and burnt ozone started wafting through the air above her head.

She sat on the couch and waited for the world to end.

* * *

It didn't.

And for some reason, that almost made her feel worse.

* * *

The second year was a wash of propaganda and enthusiastic statistics. Events surrounding the Purge became permanent curriculum in schools and courses on pre-Purge history were being taught in colleges and universities all over the country. The opinions of behaviorist experts were highly prized as the government sought to engrain the idea that accepting humanity's violent nature was the only way to solve the epidemic of violence and crime that had plagued their country for so long.

She listened to people talk about it like it was some sort of holiday. Like it was cathartic, like it was something they needed, a release, a cleansing. It didn't matter where she went; the sentiment was pervasive, rotten – _spreading_.

* * *

In early June, more than a month before the Purge, she was blind-sided by a swath of posters over the checkout at the grocery store.

" _Acceptance of ourselves enables us to forge a more perfect union."_

" _Satisfy the beast inside. Join us this July 20_ _th_ _-21_ _st_ _for our second annual Purge!"_

" _Blessed be the New Founding Fathers for letting us Purge and cleanse our souls. Blessed be America, a nation reborn._ _"_

" _United We Purge."_

It wasn't until someone jostled her, pushing through the crowd from behind that she realized the line had thinned and she was still staring. She paid for her groceries and fled, not even stopping to check the receipt as she put the groceries in the trunk and hit the gas pedal on her station wagon like her life depended on it.

She drove aimlessly for nearly three-quarters of an hour before she admitted defeat and pulled over to the shoulder. Her nails put temporary dents in the steering wheel as she gripped it tightly. Feeling each and every shock wave as the freeway traffic ramped up to a dull roar. She didn't recognize her own neighborhood anymore. It felt like everything –  _everyone_ – was evolving, changing and she was stuck standing still.

She wondered if this was what having a panic attack felt like.

* * *

It took her five months of subtle hints and downright pleading before Ed finally gave in and let her start saving for a home defense system. It came out of the house allowance, forcing her to make some tough decisions when it came to back to school clothes and all the little 'extras' that tend to pop up when your husband only gives you a set amount of money a month to keep everything in order.

The morning the people from the alarm company came and started the installation process felt like the first day she'd breathed easy in over two years.

Ed had glowered the entire time from his recliner. Making unreasonable demands of the poor, pimply teenager whose first week on the job was likely to be his last if the tremor in his hands and the nervous tic below his right eye was any indication - his manager put the fear of god into him at least three times before they broke for lunch.

She snuck him a can of Pepsi and a five dollar bill when they packed up for the day, trying to ignore his furtive glance when her three-quarter sleeve rode up just a bit too far, insulting the immaculate tan colored walls with fading hand-print bruises.

Ed had come home drunk again.

She'd tried to lock the bedroom door, make him sleep on the couch, but-

When she closed the door, she had to force herself to shut it in the boy's face as concern swept across a face that was far too young for his own good. She clicked the lock for good measure. Hoping he'd get the hint as he shuffled his feet, awkward, surrounded by tool boxes and ladders in the main hall.

She closed her eyes, leaning up against the door, as if by sheer will she could melt right through it. She felt wrung out – tired. Things had gotten worse. Ed had started to-

It wasn't until the boy's shoulders slumped, sulking in a fit of wounded-pride as he disappeared down the hall, that she wondered how he stayed safe during the Purge. Did he and his family get some sort of discount on their own system? Was it a benefit of working for the company?

Somehow she doubted it.

These days, the good ones were the ones the world ate alive, culling them in their infancy before they had the chance to become great.

It made her wonder – offhand and somewhat selfish – if the New Founding Father's would call that progress or a tragedy.

Somewhere along the line it had gotten harder to tell the difference.

* * *

The third year of the annual purge, two months before July 20th, the neighbors on either side of them moved out. Two weeks later, a nice looking couple with three teenage boys moved into the space on their left.

The condo on their right stayed vacant.

She thought about it more than she probably should have.

It made her think about empty rooms, empty things.

It made her feel vulnerable.

You'd think she'd be used to it by now.

* * *

Three hours before the start of the third annual purge, the matriarch of the Greyson family - number 506 on their left - also known as the new neighbors, knocked on her door with a lipstick-smile and a clutch of blue baptisias resting against her considerable bosom.

"You wouldn't want to give anyone the wrong impression after all, would you dear?" Mrs. Greyson counselled, blonde hair swept up in an elegant up-do, not one strand out of place. She shifted uncomfortably in the door-jamb, arms freckled with purple glitter from Sophia's school project, shirt two sizes too big and stained on the side with spaghetti sauce.

"Wrong impression?" she repeated, uncomprehending as the bouquet of flowers, liberally colored with evergreen-fern and baby's breath grew heavy in her hands.

"That you don't support the purge," the woman replied, slowly, gaze turning just shy of piercing as a flicker of emotion she recognized all too well stole across the woman's expression.  _Suspicion._

Her breathing hitched, suddenly realizing the gravity behind the woman's words, the hidden meaning.  _Oh god, If she reported her-_

"Oh, no! Of course not!" she managed, pulling on reserves she didn't know she had as her voice evened, owning her own skin for the first time in years as her back straightened and she plastered on a deprecating smile.

"You're ever so kind! I was just thinking I was going to have to pop out and pick some up. My husband just called, he was supposed to get our bouquet on the way home from work, but he's caught in grid-lock. Pre-Purge traffic, you know how it gets out there," she babbled, forcing a concerned expression as the woman's features gradually started to relax.

"What are neighbors for?" Mrs. Greyson simpered, nodding in all the right places as they made small talk about new strata rules and the grocery store down the street that was closed for renovations -  _what a bother!_

It wasn't until Sophia called from the other room, asking for a snack that she figured she could bow out gracefully.

"Duty calls," she said with a smile, laying it on thick as she waved the bouquet around in a lazy circle, cooing appreciatively as the store-brought gloss caused the flower petals to catch in the overhead lights. "I better get these into water. Again, so thoughtful of you!"

"I understand, my dear. I remember when my boys were that age. It was endless!" the woman chirped, smoothing French manicured finger nails down the sides of her royal-blue cashmere sweater.

"Stay safe tonight. However you plan to spend it, enjoy it," Mrs. Greyson purred, turning slightly as she gave her a clear once over. "It only happens once a year, after all."

"Stay safe," she echoed faintly.

She closed the door with a soft snap. Waiting until the woman had returned to her apartment before she allowed her knees to buckle. She wasn't sure how long she stayed like that, only that at half past four, the clock chimed and she found herself leaning back against the door, legs tucked firmly into her chest, staring blankly ahead as the crisp, refrigerated petals started to soften around the edges.

She placed them outside their door in the hall, impeccably arranged in a lovely crystal vase that her mother had given her a half-dozen Christmas' ago. Giving no sign that she knew any different when, a few hours later, only minutes after the final alarm klaxon faded from the naturally still air, the Greyson family filed down the hall in various shades of black, armed to the teeth with hand guns, machetes and nail-studded baseball bats, nodding approvingly at her baptisias as they passed.

She never looked at that color of blue quite the same way after that.

But every year after, without fail, she never forgot to buy a bouquet on Purge night.

So, either way, she figured the point had been made.


	2. Chapter 2

The fourth year she was watching the Purge feeds when a man in an angel-winged vest pulled another man - larger with short greying hair and a hot temper - from the middle of an all-out street brawl the next county over.

' _Brothers,'_  she'd thought, silent and alone as the quiet of her living room threatened to swallow her whole. Her hands wove themselves between the couch cushions of their own accord. Feeling uncommonly fascinated as the young, shaggy haired man towed the squirming, flailing one clear of the mess.  _Saving a life rather than taking it._

She watched, rapt, as the King County surveillance cameras followed them down the street. She squinted, trying to make out features and expressions from the grainy footage. They were arguing in real time. Spitting insults and angry gestures as the younger brother hustled the older one towards an old truck idling on the curb.

It wasn't until the camera zoomed in that she realized the full breadth of what he'd done. Because there were  _people_  in the back of that truck, a man in a bloody sheriff's uniform hovering protectively over a terrified woman with long brown hair, their little boy squeezed tight between them.

She nearly choked on the breath she'd been holding.

There was an unspoken rule when it came to the Purge.

You _took_  lives. You didn't _save_  them.

But as the two brothers hurled themselves inside and peeled out of view, she had a feeling that man hadn't gotten to where he was in life by playing by the rules.

* * *

She spent the next few days gripped by it, emboldened by a fierce sort of obsession she was content not to examine too closely as she tried to piece it together in her mind. She barely noticed when Ed came home the next morning, the acrid staleness of blood stark above the softer scents of vanilla and cinnamon – candles she'd let Sophia light the night before – adding a sort of ambiance to their tea party as she'd tried her best to keep her daughter occupied.

He wasn't important.

Not after what she'd seen.

She found that she remembered the oddest things. Like the way his crossbow had blended seamlessly at his side. He carried it around like it was an extension of an arm rather than an object in its own right. Bending the very light as he crouched beside the wheel-wells, wary and alert in a way that made her certain that the game he was used to hunting was far smaller.

He was out of place here, out of his element.

But that only made him that much more dangerous.

She remembered the off-centre cowlick and the feathers that had blossomed from an attacker's chest when he came at the pair with a buck knife, howling mutely before child-like surprise slipped across his features. His figure crumpled like a match-stick tower - easy and impotent enough that it gave her second hand embarrassment.

She wanted to know his story.  _Their story_. She wanted to know, she wanted to ask-  _god -_ only a thousand questions. She wanted to soak it in, to pull it out piece by piece until she understood the heart of it. She wanted to _feel_  it. She wanted to know what it was like to see the world for what it was and not want to scream – to take a pair of scissors to her hair and cut until there was nothing left – to not see an out every time she took a knife out of the block in the kitchen. She wanted-

The clock  _tick-ticked_.

There were keys jingling in the lock.

She'd forgotten to get dinner ready.

Ed was shouting, screaming in her ear, cruel fingers curling around her arm – jerking her.

But she barely registered a word of it.

The idea that people could still be good was like a thread unraveling from a greater whole. And she held onto it fiercely -  _desperately_. She was already in too deep for there to be any other choice.

* * *

Two months after the third annual purge, the Grimes family moved into the empty apartment next door.

* * *

It took more than a few chance meetings in the hallway to make the connection. To recognize that the frightened, blood-soaked family cowering in the back of the man's truck were the same powerful, attractive couple that had moved in on a whim only a few months after the Purge.

She dealt with the stress by baking. Cooking up a storm until she realized she'd made far too much and  _really_ , wouldn't it be nice if she brought their new neighbors a tray of lasagna and sugar cookies?

The hallway was cluttered with unpacked boxes and stray packing peanuts, but Mrs. Grimes –  _Lori_ , she insisted – ushered her into the living room regardless, making appreciative sounds as she took both offerings and insisted on making her a cup of coffee. She watched, rapt and slightly intimidated as the espresso maker hissed and spat, clunking and creaking as the woman flipped up the lid and added a sprinkling of fresh beans on one end and a glug of milk in the other.

It was like watching a performance.

And, much like she'd expected, the mug of coffee pushed into her hands seemed more like a work of art than a beverage. Complete with a generous shake of chocolate and cinnamon and lazy, artistic lines etched through the foam. The mug was ceramic, custom – expensive - heavy enough that she had to hold it in two hands.

Her guilt at finally succumbing to temptation was overridden by her first sip.

It was without a doubt, the best coffee she'd ever tasted.

* * *

They ended up chatting for close to two hours. Lori was young, vibrant and full of life in a way she immediately envied. But the jealously refused to stick, so instead she soaked it in until she found herself smiling – laughing – not one second of it forced. It felt like spring. Like the sunshine after a long winter.

She left with a genuine smile on her face and promises of a play date with Sophia and her son Carl just as soon as they could line up their schedules.

* * *

The rest took longer to suss out.

Like all good things, it took time. And as much as she yearned to know, she let most of it come about naturally. The first time the kids met for a play-date, she cut the woman a generous slice of pineapple upside down cake and made idle small talk as Sophia ran around collecting board games and her favorite dolls.

She learned how Lori chafed a bit, being a stay-at-home mom, but clearly doted on her son. She learned about the college degree she'd put on hold. She'd learned how Carl had been born three months premature, that the doctors didn't think they should try again. She learned that they'd made the move suddenly, losing their family home in a fire on Purge night when a couple marauders laid siege to their old neighborhood.

She learned that Lori's husband, Rick, had been offered a position at a detachment in Atlanta, a fresh start. She listened, eyes welling up with sympathetic tears as Lori told her about Shane Walsh, Rick's partner. How he'd been with them when the gang who'd scoped out their neighborhood started chaining people behind their bikes and gunning the throttle, smearing soft flesh across the concrete until it was impossible to determine where one person ended and another began.

She told her how he'd taken a bullet for Rick, right there on their front porch. How her husband had cradled him, sobbing, watching the light go out from his eyes as the cat-calls and whooping started up only a few houses over. Lori told her, breathless and barely holding it together as she joined her on the couch – shoulder to shoulder - how the moonlight had caught on the pit-edged machetes, ranging back and forth like a pendulum as a couple of decades worth of friendship bled out across the flagstones.

They'd looked up apartments two days after the funeral, two weeks after their ordeal and found the one next to theirs the first try.

She learned that they didn't have a security system. So she pressed the number for the company that had installed theirs into her hand before they left. The bent business card made her think of the pimply teenager with the kind face. She traced her fingers, nervous, over the edge as Lori and Carl made their goodbyes. The card was ink-smudged and crumpled, but she could still make out the cell phone number the boy had scribbled hastily onto the back. And while the card itself hurt to let go of, she figured that ultimately, it was for the best.

_Never hurt to be proactive, after all._

She learned that they were as well-adjusted as they could be and in post-trauma therapy. That they put on a brave face for their boy's sake, but that their marriage hadn't been the same since the Purge.

They'd lived outside the city, in the country. It was supposed to be safe there. Their Realtor had marketed it as idyllic. As a place where a child could grow up happy and carefree, with the Purge being nothing more than a night pf inconvenience once a year. It wasn't supposed to be like in the city.

She learned that the atmosphere at home was nervous, strained. They either weren't talking or neither one of them was listening. She felt bias on Lori's behalf almost immediately, but tried her best to be impartial.  _Always takes two after all._  She forced herself not to show any sign as excitement as anticipation rose thick in the back of her throat when Lori confided that she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop; that she didn't know what they would've done if Daryl hadn't-

In fact, before she'd really internalized it, she and Lori were fast friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference points: According to the literature available from the movies, the 28th constitutional amendment was ratified in 2017, instilling the American people with the right to Purge safely, without any fear of reprisals from government, civilian parties, or law enforcement officials during the set period of time during the government sanctioned Purge night.
> 
> *Purging is the NFFA's way of creating a lawful, healthy outlet for American outrage.
> 
> *In 2018 Blue Baptisias are named as official flower of the Purge. In setting them outside your house you are publicly showing your support for the annual purge and everyone's right to purge how they choose.
> 
> 28TH AMENDMENT TO THE UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION
> 
> SECTION 1: The Annual Purge shall begin each year on June 20 at sunset, officially starting at 7PM, and ending at sunrise, June 21, at 7AM.
> 
> SECTION 2: During the time of The Purge, any and all crime, up to and including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire and hospital aid will be unavailable until The Purge concludes.
> 
> SECTION 3: The following weapons cannot be used during The Purge: weapons of mass destruction, fragment-producing explosives higher than a hazard class HC/D 1.4 and viral contagion projectiles. Recommended weapons: A.R. rifles and handguns of caliber 6.2 and all bladed weaponry.
> 
> SECTION 4: Government officials of ranking 5 and higher have been granted immunity from The Purge and shall not be harmed.
> 
> SECTION 5: Non-compliance with any of the aforementioned rules will result in death by hanging.


End file.
